


Martyr

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [22]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: M/M, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:09:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1857507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan awakes from days of opium fog, only to remember the horror he endured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Martyr

**Author's Note:**

> Set during and just after 2x04. Follows [The Valkyries](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1854571)

It seemed to Athelstan that his mind had been wrapped in a thick, woolen blanket. He perceived a few snippets of what was going on around him: a man’s gentle voice; the soft, wrinkled hands of an aged healer as he was bathed; the sharp smell of alcohol and pungent herbs; the taste of an onion-laden broth. Most of it, however, was a big blur. A part of his brain realized why—he must have been given a tincture of opium—but he otherwise could not think clearly enough to truly understand what was happening. He murmured prayers to himself when he could move his lips, but was otherwise still, days passing without his acknowledgement of them.

One morning, however, he woke to a relatively clear mind. His body ached at every point, inside and out, but he at least felt somewhat alert.

“Sire! He is awake.” The gravelly voice of an old one—Woman? Man?—sounded near his head.

“Thank you!” Footsteps on a wooden floor, and then the pressure of someone sitting on the edge of where he lay. “Can you hear me, Athelstan?” A warm hand stroked his cheek.

“Yes.” The word was cracked, as dry as his lips. He opened his eyes. They took a moment to focus, but then the image snapped in: The person sitting next to him was an older man, with kind, curious eyes. He was gray of beard and hair, and clad in rich fabrics. Upon his head . . . Athelstan tried to sit up. “Sire!”

“Easy!” The warm hand guided him back down. “You needn’t rise for me.”

Athelstan tried to settle back down, but he now recognized the face. It was the king; the one who had saved him from . . . from _that_.

All at once, the memories, far more clear than he wanted, came surging back.

 

***

 

He thought he was saved. Speaking the language of his attackers had led to his life being spared once; surely it would work again. For a short time, it did. The soldiers who had found him believed his story, and chose not to kill him outright. It wasn’t until he had been brought to the village that things changed. Ecbert was occupied with other business, they said, so they took him to another authority.

“Athelstan, is it? That is a Saxon name.” The bishop’s round face was pinched with skepticism. “You say you are one of us?”

It felt like a lie to say it. “I am, your Excellency. I was a monk at Lindisfarne. I was captured by the Northmen and kept as a slave for many years.”

“And are you still a slave now? You are dressed like a warrior. Do these Northmen allow their slaves armor and weapons?” He picked up Athelstan’s axe, which had been confiscated and set aside.

Athelstan could not help a glance down at the ring encircling his left arm. “I am no longer a slave. I was freed.”

“Indeed. And how long ago did this happen? How long have you been a free man?”

The days since Ragnar had left had begun to melt together. “A week? Two?” He suddenly remembered that Ragnar had visited this place, and had come back with news of good negotiation just before he got word of the attack on Kattegat. “You have spoken with my master—my former master—Ragnar Lothbrok. He is the earl of the village where I was kept.”

The bishop’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. I recognize you now. You were with the party that took the prince hostage while the king treated with this . . . Ragnar.”

“I was. I was also at our—at the camp of the Northmen—when you came to deliver the message from the king. I imagine you did not see me then.”

“I did not, no. But I am curious.” He took a couple of steps toward Athelstan, while fondling the axe. “How is it that a slave—or a man who had been one until so recently—would have been in such elite company?”

Athelstan’s heart began racing. “I am Ragnar’s steward. He has kept me in a position of trust. He values my knowledge and experience.”

“Your knowledge. Of what? What knowledge might a monk have had that such a savage would need? Did he need you to illuminate books for him? Books on battle tactics or weapons, perhaps?” He laughed, and the soldiers who surrounded them laughed with him.

Athelstan stared at the axe in the bishop’s hands, wondering if he could somehow snatch it up, and fight his way out. “My . . . my knowledge of England. Of the language.”

“And what use could that be, I wonder?” The bishop cocked his head. “What I wonder even more: Why would you offer such information to him?”

Athelstan began to tremble, and sweat prickled his skin. “I don’t understand your meaning, Excellency.”

“I cannot help but wonder why a servant of God would serve a heathen. I cannot help but wonder why you gave him such service.”

“As I said, I was a slave, I—“

The bishop pushed the blade of the axe against Athelstan’s chest. “Your savior laid down his life for the sake of the greater good, and yet you could not do the same? You valued your own life over the well-being of Christians? Tell me the truth, monk: you are not one of us at all, are you?”

“You do not understand. I was captured. They forced me—“ As the blade pressed at the leather of his vest, he gave up. He himself did not believe the words he was saying; how could he convince this bishop of their truth? He dropped to his knees. “I beg your mercy, Excellency. Yes, I was one of them, for a time. But I wish to return to my homeland. I wish to return to my faith. I wish to serve God once again.”

“Oh, you will serve Him, apostate.” The bishop’s face twisted into a feral smile. He flung the axe aside, and looked up at the soldiers. “Come! This heathen needs to be reminded of the dear sacrifice that our lord Jesus made for his worthless soul.”

Athelstan looked up, just long enough to see the mailed fist aimed at his face. The world went dark.

 

He awoke to find himself in an open field, being manhandled by the soldiers. He could see little; one eye had nearly swollen shut, and his vision in the other was still blurred from the blow that had knocked him unconscious. He still could feel what was happening, however. His leather vest and belt had already been cut from him. His boots were being dragged off. One tall, broad-shouldered man grabbed at his tunic and began to tear, ripping the fabric apart at the chest.

“Please!” Athelstan cried. “Don’t do this!” He was backhanded across the mouth, hard enough to loosen a tooth. He tasted blood.  

The men at his feet moved up, cutting the laces of his breeches with a knife and yanking them off of his hips. His tunic now in tatters, it was pulled from his body and tossed aside. Soon, he was left with nothing but undergarments, which to his small relief his captors allowed to remain. The air was cool and damp, and he shivered at the touch of it on his bare skin. It also chilled the metal of his armring. He glanced down at it, silently begging whatever gods might be listening that it not be taken from him. His captors did pass over it, but only because they had other things to do.

The broad-shouldered man grabbed his arms, dragging him to his feet, and led him to a nearby stone outcropping. He shoved hard in the middle of Athelstan’s back, causing him to splay out on the rocks. The pain at hitting his knee on the hard surface was soon supplanted by something far worse. He heard a whistle in the air, and then the skin of his back lit on fire. He screamed.

Over and over again the whip made contact with his body. He twisted and turned under the lash, but could not escape it. Its sharp tongue licked at his belly, his arms, his thighs. He felt a nipple begin to swell and throb, and an ill-aimed blow had also raised a welt on his neck. In between the echo of his own screams in his ears, he heard something else: the buzz and rustle of a gathering crowd. Not only had he been stripped and lashed, but his pain and humiliation were also being put on display, for the amusement of some of the townsfolk. His stomach turned, and he vomited.

The blows finally stopped, and he caught his breath, only to be dragged from the rock and shoved to his knees before the bishop.

“I have something here for you, apostate.” The bishop held a circlet of rough-woven vines. Laughing to himself, he pushed it down on Athelstan’s head, and the jutting thorns dug into his skin.

“ _Kýrie eléison_ ,” Athelstan begged. “ _Christe eléison_.”

No mercy came.

 

***

 

“Athelstan?” The gentle voice filtered into his conscious mind.

“No!” he murmured, and began to flail, much as the movement hurt.  

The hand touched his cheek again. “Please, calm yourself. You are safe. You are under my protection. I will not let them harm you again.”

He stared at the kindly face. For a moment, he saw an unkempt, blond beard, and a partly-shaved, ink-decorated head. He saw bright, almost unnaturally blue eyes. “Ragnar,” he breathed. "You have come back for me!"

“Ragnar?” The face frowned. “I am not Ragnar. I am King Ecbert.”

The proper countenance came into focus. “Oh. Forgive me, sire,” he managed to say. He could not help but sound disappointed, however.

“No harm done. I take it you know Ragnar well, though, yes?”

Had it not hurt to do so, he would have smiled. “Yes. Very well.”

“Bishop Edmund said he was once your master. I had wondered where the Northman had learned to speak our language. Now I know.” He smiled at some internal amusement. “He is an . . . interesting man, that one.”

Afraid of saying too much, Athelstan only nodded, though inside his head, a wash of pleasant memories began to play.

“Well,” the king continued, his hand stroking down Athelstan’s cheek and coming to rest on the side of his neck, “I hope that perhaps you might come to find me interesting, too.”


End file.
